I think things out in mental prose when I'm emotional or thoughtful, and then, if I remember and get around to it, I write them here. And then, if I deem them to be too emotional (usually read: embarrassing), I go back and qualify everything. Or if I get angry or annoyed with myself over what a sappy, soppy mess I've become, which happens with some regularity, I go back and qualify everything. (Perhaps it's utterly obvious that I am hugely uncomfortable with emotion, and that writing for me is an exercise in allowing and processing emotion, and so I don't need to say this. I don't know. Anyway.) I don't lie, per se, but I cover. Like the unsent, unflattering (to me) letter to David. It's not that it isn't true. Any of it--the letter or the added qualifications. But I would feel horrible, I think, if he read what I wrote the other day, because I so minimized the depth of it.
The letter: I do feel that way. I don't usually think about it. Those embers are still there. I do sometimes get teary when particularly-close-to-home songs come on the radio. And when they come on, and I realize halfway through that I didn't immediately get emotional, I start feeling all proud of myself. The brokenness thing is true, and I hate it. Having grown a little past that fit in the last twelve months, I now become uncomfortable and irritated when we're together, and I don't like it. Don't like being together. But I still miss being together. I guess it, this mess, might be a little like putting on a shirt that used to fit, that I used to love. (So much.) I remember it looking and feeling great. But it doesn't fit anymore, and its colors have faded while my skin has darkened in the sun. And when I put it on, it's uncomfortable and unflattering. The shirt has changed a little, and I have changed a lot.
And I write things like "and I'm never attracted to anyone anymore," which is generally, but not utterly, true--and then I feel like it will screw up any shot I might have with any guy who reads it. So I qualify. And that sickens me a little. On the one hand, I'm not generally attracted, even when I expect to be, and it is often (or seems to be) largely due to a not-like-David factor. That sickens me a bit as well. But rarely doesn't mean never. And so on the other hand, well, one, I don't want to seem like a complete psycho, even if I guess sometimes a case could be made that maybe I am. And two, being emotionally retarded (no, literally--not in an offensive slangy way) doesn't mean that I'll never grow out of it or that I want to stay in this stupid stuck-in-the-past state forever. I mean, PLEASE, SOMEBODY, PLEASE convince me that my shot at love isn't over. The very idea is ridiculous--it's not like our relationship was all sunshine and flowers and declarations of love; more like pretty good times punctuated by piercing, breathtaking doubt--but I still find it incredibly difficult to let go.
Plus, dammit, I'm lonely. Not for a social life. For such a close friend and companion. I really miss that.
Why, and how, do things turn into such a mess sometimes?
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